


Reggatta De Blanc

by PaxVobis



Series: Original Album Series [5]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bottom Surgery, Canon Trans Character, Cuddlefucking, Dirty Talk, Drug Addiction, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Frottage, Gentle Kissing, Groupies, Healing, Heroin, Hotel Sex, Hotels, Hurt/Comfort, Hysterectomy, Japan, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Explicit Sex, Oral Sex, Other, Painful Sex, Preklok, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Reggae, Request Meme, Sad and Happy, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Showers, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles, Snakes N' Barrels, Surgery, Tokyo (City), Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transitioning, Urination, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, not uh erotically, sake, trans pickles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 01:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14582361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: 1991, Tokyo, Japan - Pickles is recovering from bottom surgery in a hotel room and faces a lonely stretch ahead of him with only books and tapes for company - but his bandmate, Tony, pays him a surprise visit.R18+ ONLY, non-explicit sex and explicit drug use.





	Reggatta De Blanc

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rattlehead_Rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rattlehead_Rose/gifts).



Recovery from the first operation had been short but lonely.  A hotel room in California and locked away with nothing but books and tapes, and it was a bit like emerging from a chrysalis, yeah, each time, and that was an incredible feeling, but the loneliness had been one of the worst Pickles had felt in his entire life.  That it was something to be ashamed of, y’know, with only their manager Howie coming to check on him, tote up drinks and more books and the other boys in the band getting sick of his deranged, heavily medicated phone calls fast.  It was the boredom that killed him, y’know.  It dug right in there, all those sick, shameful feelings, when you had to sit still and just be alone.  It was fucking intolerable.

The second operation was in Japan, coinciding with the end of a massive tour that had seen them in the country’s biggest stadiums, doted upon by hordes of Japanese fans.  As crunch time had approached and the date had loomed red on Pickles’ calendar, he had found himself wracked with anxiety the likes of which he’d never known before.  Maybe that was the – okay, it was definitely the junk, or more the terror of not having it, but it was more than just that.  After all, the fucked up opioids they put him on for the surgery should deal with that for a while.  Pickles thought he was afraid of it going wrong – or it being the wrong decision – or ending up mutilated, or dead – or worse, numb down there or – but the reality was, and he knew it was, that he was just terrified of the weeks he was going to spend alone, and bored, stranded alone in a foreign country, a Tokyo hotel room, helpless and with no way to escape, no way to go back to what was... before.  That was the killer, you know.  That’s what shook him to the bone.

But it came and went – surgeons’ offices, the distinguished Mr Chino at the cutting (ha!) edge of his business, this whole business, and a shy and star struck girl from the administration translating consent forms, and Howie standing over his shoulder always, _always_ , in a way that Pickles was beginning to resent, in 1991.  It was all very sterile and nothing, kinda deluded, kinda surreal, talking about that organ shit as if that was just something another person could do, this Japanese dude talking to you gently, like _this dude_ was gonna _literally_ cut you open and take something out.  Bits of you, like your _meat._   Through a _keyhole_.  This dude.  What the fuck!  So it never felt _real_ until you were on your back on the operating table and huffing the gas, and thinking about how your pals were gonna be out in Rappongi downing sake and running around after hostesses and on that good yakuza horse and you, you were gonna be lying here dead to the world with your tongue sticking out and some tubes down your throat like a dog getting fixed, and this dude with the salt and pepper hair was gonna cut a little hole in the back of your cunt and drag it all out like flesh balloons and then – and then – well.  It wasn’t a fucking party, was it?  But if he woke up with a dick, then Pickles just about thought that was worth a couple of hostesses, right?

And he woke up with a dick, probably, uh, it was pretty hard to tell for the first few days, his body felt so fucked up just crashed out in the private hospital bed.  White white white nothing.  Alone.  He’d have been bored if he was awake, but there wasn’t much time for it, windows of nurses standing at his bedside and shaking him awake, making him eat food he didn’t want to, medicine he did.  Howie leaning over him and asking in that distant, calm, controlling way he had about withdrawals and how was he going and such and such.  Moving to the hotel tomorrow once the gauze was changed.  The boys had scored good H for him, and Sammy and Snazz were going back to LA in the morning.  Oh... but what about... but Pickles could barely force the thought through his head before Howie was pulling sheets off him, telling him he had to get up and walk around before he got blood clots in his legs and popped them through his veins, y’know, into his lungs?  Pickles staring straight ahead at his pale pink legs like sausages beneath him, giving an awkward cough (to dislodge the clots, he thought, uh) and terrified of how that could be so.  Howie holding his arm.  “C’mon, slowly.  Just round the room, this nice lady says.  C’mon, you’re right, you got it.  Fantastic.  You’re a star, Pickles.”  Very familiar, very distant, shit.

Weird fucking conversations halfway out of consciousness, sitting next to Howie in one of those strange black Tokyo taxies in the loosest clothes they could find him, en route to the hotel.  The guy’s weird laugh, “Bet you can’t wait to take a proper piss now they unhooked ya, huh?  Uh, the nurse says it’ll hurt, just... keeping you up with that, but, damn, Pickles!  I can’t imagine, like, _getting_ a dick.  God, man, that’d just be mental!  You know what I mean?”  Pickles thought he probably did, you know, but – he hadn’t really had a chance to experiment, and from what they were saying, he wouldn’t for another six fucking weeks.  They said after four he could get back on the plane, but that was still a _month_ stuck here in Tokyo.  Shooting up alone in a hotel room, cut off from the world, watching the city hum far below.  He wondered how soon was too soon to call Tony and tell him it was a success.  Probably he should hold off at least until he could piss standing up.  At least until he could stand up.

In the end it was two days, until he could stagger to the hotel bathroom and instead of falling ass-first onto it attempt to stay upright and hold the raw... assemblage, with its livid lines and – and it was just kinda bizarre, not like bad, just pretty weird right now like... yeah.  He had a dick and shit.  Shorter than he’d hoped, but that’s what they told him, like.  And it was a silly thing, standing akimbo over the can with one hand on the cistern to support himself, and it fucking _stang_ , but it worked.  So that was pretty fucking crazy, huh?  Pickles lay on the bed and felt the encroaching junk sickness, and palmed at the parts of his abdomen that had that weird, swollen ache beyond the pain killers, searching for the promised gaps, and he’d excitedly resolved to call Tony and tell him all about it.  Like _hey, dude, you’ll never believe this shit!  Reckon I got an inch and a half, two, three inches, easy._ He definitely didn’t have three inches, but that was against the point.  It was in the telling, y’know.

But he was lying there, palming himself numbly, when the hotel room phone rang on his bedside table.  Pickles hauled himself to the edge of the double bed and answered it, expecting Howie or room service, because who else had this number, but hey!  It was fucking Tony.  _Hey, bro._ And by that point it had been like, two weeks or something since Pickles had heard that dumb motherfucker’s voice and he could have cried, in fact he did shed a tear or two, and it all just gushed out, “Hey dude ooooh man oh dude am I glad to hear your voice!!  Everything’s cool dude it’s all fucking great you ain’t gonna believe this!!”

 _Oh yeah??!_ said Tony, and Pickles rubbed the tears off his cheeks, sniffing into the receiver.

“Yeah yeah!  Everything’s so cool!  Oh my _goooooood_ Tony!  I fuckin’ did it!”

 _You did it, bro!_ Just hearing him say that had Pickles openly crying, clutching the receiver to his wet face.

“I can’t fuckin’ wait for you to see dude!  I’m gonna fuckin’... write my name in the fuckin’ snow, I’m gonna piss in a _fuckin drain_!  I’m gonna piss on _everything_.  It’s gonna be fuckin’... insane!”

Tony was laughing at him.  _You want me to see?_ he asked, sounding as if he was smiling, _well, bro, I better come check it out then!_

Pickles nursed the phone close to his head and chucked at him.  “Oh, dude.  No, I’m still in Japan.  I’m still in Japan.  I’m in Tokyo,” he said, and Tony said:

_I know, bro!  I’m in Tokyo too!_

“Oh shit!” said Pickles, flipping onto his back and eyeing the hotel room door.  “Oh, well then, uh, I’m in the Chinzan-so – ”

_I know, dude!  I’m in the lobby._

“You’re in the lobby!!!”

_I’m in the lobby!_

“You’re in the fucking lobby!!!!!”  He should have noticed it was an internal line.  Fuck, _fuck!_   Tony was in the fucking lobby!

_Howie gave me his spare key bro!  I’m comin’ up!_

“You’re coming up!!!!!!!”

_I’m comin’ up bro!_

“You’re coming up!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

And so Tony came up, and let himself in, and as soon as the door was closed on them and Pickles had had his second of sitting up in bed, his hands on his head and crowing, “Oh shit!! Oh _shit!!!_ ”, he had fallen into bed with him, his bags abandoned on the floor, and rolled Pickles, careful not to hurt him, kissed his wet cheeks to shrieks of excited, stoned laughter.  The smell of his soft leather jacket, his greasy hair, his junk sweat.  Pickles could form no words but, “Oh, shit, dude!” and “It’s you!” until long after the initial excitement had washed back, and Tony abandoned him for his bags again.

“I brought you some stuff, bro!”  What stuff – what stuff??  _Ohhh...._ that stuff.   A familiar little box.  Thank god.  But there was other shit, too – tapes, which Tony excitedly stacked one on top of another on Pickles’ bedside table.  Pickles read off their titles as he lay there, impulsively, _Augustus Pablo, Carol Kalphat, Got To Get Away, Screaming Target, Soul Mining, Nightclubbing, Reggatta De Blanc._   Tony’s shit, but a change was gonna be nice.  Tony heaped out flowers, dropping their wilted petals, onto the bedside table telling him, “These are from Howie.  He sends his _love_ , Daigoro _._ ”  To Pickles’ rolled eyes and snickers.  The fucking weirdo.

In the grey Tokyo afternoon sunlight through the huge curtained windows of the, yeah, rockstar suite, Tony put on some reggae, shrugged off his jacket and shirt, and shot them both up, sitting next to Pickles on the bed with his pale, hairy paunch gathered over his waistband as his belt was around Pickles’ arm.  Then, stoned properly, they lay there together and talked about what good shit it was, what Tony had been doing in Tokyo, the girls he’d fucked while Pickles was in hospital, Dr Alimantado, what good shit it was, the electric chair, this chick who just loved fingers in her ass, just like Pickles, and they had a good giggle over that, then Howie, then what good shit it was again.  One day he’d think back on this and wonder why he was so fucking boring as a junkie, but all junkies were that boring.  That was just a fact of junk.

But it was a good thing, for then, being stoned with that dub going on the stereo Howie had brought up for him, and just slumped there looking at Tony, lying beside him, smiling distantly at him in the grey light, his hair spread over the covers like strings of black liquorice, his black eyes stupid with Pickles’ wasted beauty, sucking him in like that.  Or at night, further gone than ever, in the yellow lights of the hotel room while the city glittered outside like the circuits of a computer sprawling below them, and Tony in his top hat with a cup of warm sake in one hand and conducting Grace Jones with the other as he danced, weirdly in slow, drunken motions, and sang along for Pickles, who cackled with embarrassment at his stupid friend.  Playing air bass with his fingers fluttering in the air by his thigh.  “Fuck, bro!  Listen to that shit!  Mad cunt, Robbie Shakespeare.  Fucking, mad cunt, Pickles!”

And Pickles rolling in the covers, clutching the pillows and blankets to him as though he were lost in a vast sea, high out of his fucking mind on pain killers, and junk, and on Tony’s stupidity.  In hindsight, this was probably the closest he got to dying, actual overdoses aside.  But somehow they didn’t even notice at the time.  They didn’t think about anything – not even where Tony was meant to go, because he just stayed, sleeping in a pile of pillows and covers with Pickles that night, and the next, and on and on.  Food was room service or whatever Tony brought back on his rare outings for gear, sake, bento boxes of rice and chicken, and one wonderful night towards the end of their visit, a motherfucking pizza.  Where the fuck he’d managed to find a pepperoni pizza in Tokyo in 1991 was _beyond_ Pickles but there he was, flanked by two groupies, and they all sat on the bed and fed Pickles pizza and giggled and talked in stilted English about trying out his new dick – maybe next tour.  Not that he’d ever remember their faces, y’know.

Of course there was sex.  There wasn’t supposed to be, Dr Chino had strictly forbade him until the six weeks was up, but of course there was.  It wasn’t easy – the dick hurt badly, and when they were first too stoned to realise what a horrible idea it was and Tony threw back the covers to check it out, he remarked uncertainly that it looked very swollen and not the good type, that perhaps Pickles shouldn’t get his hopes up about three inches just yet.  Pickles told him to shut the fuck up but quickly had to stop him from touching it, it caned so fucking bad – and with every twinge of arousal, a stitch inside him tugged and bolted him with deep internal pain, and so everything cut back quickly enough. 

So for the first week or so – hard to tell how long, he was so gone, so often – it was just kissing and soft touching, Tony jerking himself off next to him while gazing at him and chatting filth together, or holding him and rubbed up against his thigh, his forehead crushed hot against Pickles’, or straight up just bringing a girl back to fuck her on the bed right next to him, not really caring at this stage, and mostly just sleeping fucked out through it or else watching, commentating Tony’s ineptitude when he felt like being a dickass and getting slapped for it, but otherwise just silent and envious. 

When the weeks drew on, that tug stopped being so severe and heated necking could fizzle out into careful, tender and frantic finger fucking while Tony jerked off, so long as Pickles was stoned enough to ignore the twinge of pain.  As he weaned off the pain killers he was more present, and could more reasonably suck the guy off rather than just choking with his mouth open like a blow up doll.  Sucked that he couldn’t ask for the same back, but... just wait it out and he was gonna skullfuck Tony so hard he wouldn’t remember a time without Pickles’ massive Irish cock down his throat, right?   It was shaping up closer to two inches, actually... damn it.  But whatever.  By week three he was lucid enough to go full tilt on groupie titties, and by the end of week four, they were on a plane home to Los Angeles.  Or however home that place ever was.  There were music videos to film.

But this, of course, was a view in hindsight.  For Pickles, a prehistoric twenty years old, only right now existed, and later, and things that had passed before weren’t worth thinking about, regardless of whether they were nice or not, and when they poked themselves into his mind he resented them and drank them back down again.  But most of the hotel room hadn’t been sex, and it hadn’t been parties with groupies and pizza, nor visits from Howie with gifts from fans, notified that Pickles was recovering from a surgery but not what it was, nor even sake and Grace Jones – though it had been reggae, and constantly Tony, sprawled on the bed beside him and leafing through fanmail, reading it aloud to Pickles as he tried to answer even some of it.  Or just chatting faintly to him through his high, about where they were going from here – the direction of the new album, music videos, what they were gonna do with the live show.  Pickles collapsed on the bed, groaning back at him, “Could do reggae.”

“You can’t do reggae.”

“I can do reggae.  Yo, you remember, you played me that Dylan, shit... ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’... reggae... tellin’ me it was better’n Clapton...”  Pickles waved his hand at Tony, who stood up against the window smoking and gazed out of it over the city, until he got the point and lowered his head.

“Well, it was.”

“Yeah, huh.  We could do that.  You could do that.  You can do reggae, Tones.”  Tony said nothing, didn’t even look at him, so Pickles pushed, smirking through his numb lips.  “Yo, we could be a reggae band.  Dreads N’ Barrels.”

“Fuck,” cursed Tony as soon as he said it, and he banged his head against the window to a dull thud, and then turned to smile inanely at Pickles.  “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me, bro.  Honest to god.  Holy shit.”

Or it was being so stoned, so anaesthetised, as he made up excuses to shoot up or swallow extra against imagined pain that he couldn’t even move, and Tony forcing him to deal with his functions – dragging him to the ensuite bathroom and holding him up with the shower running over both of them, Pickles dangling by his arms and just pissing himself, triggered by the hot water over his bare skin, while Tony struggled to hold him up, his pale skin slippery in his fists.  If Pickles had remembered this, he would have remembered that despite the shameful scene, Tony had retained his sense of humor, chuckling over him and holding him up with both arms around his chest: “Shit, bro, that’s some trajectory you got goin’ there!  Reckon that lil’ guy’s gonna be a serious threat to Snazzy in the next piss match, huh!”

Or he would have remembered Tony dragging him by his ankles off the bed, repeating what Howie had said about blood clots - “C’mon, man, you gotta walk,” to Pickles’ blank groaning, “C’mon, lil’ bro, you gotta.  Howie says you gotta.  C’mon.”  As it was, he didn’t remember this at all until he was sitting in a hotel lobby with his wife a year later, and a Police song had come on the speakers, and it had jabbed its way in like an ugly fucking cock into his mind, pushed immediately down again. 

Off that album, _Reggatta De Blanc,_ when Tony had been trying to get him to stand up and fucking walk, just circle the room and crash again.  After hopelessly scooping Pickles off the carpet for the fourteenth time and setting him upright on the edge of the bed again, Tony had knelt in front of him and looked up at him hopelessly, his spirit crushed, and then just listened to the stereo and huffed in dull amusement at the irony of what he was hearing before he explained to Pickles, barely conscious above him:

“This song, bro.  Y’know, Sting wrote this – this _riff,_ y’know, when he was in this hotel room in Paris, or some shit, I don’t remember.  And the lyrics – wasn’t shit about the moon landing or, y’know.  It was cuz  he was walking around the room to this riff in his head – _giant steps are what you take, walkin’ round the room_...”

Pickles had looked down at him vacantly, his eyes cocked in vaguely different directions.  “That’s the shittest thing I ever fuckin’... heard,” he breathed, though it made him laugh for some unfathomable reason.  There was _no_ poetry in that story, it just sucked the whole mystery out of the thing... _walking round the room,_ for fuck’s sake...

They sat there in silence and listened to the track for a moment, Tony in admiration, Pickles in mild disgust, until Tony slapped his knees definitively and put his hands out for Pickles’.  “C’mon.  Walkin’ round the room.”  When he was given them – although not before Pickles had snorted in annoyance and tried to roll his eyes, mostly just leaving them further unfocused – he rose and drew Pickles up as well, allowing him to rest his whole weight on his hands.  And I mean, diss it all you like.  It worked.  Moving to a rhythm he recognised, Tony repeating the dumb, unmagical draft lyrics to him, and “Keep it up,” around a smirk in time with the track.  Calling it up later, too, to get him on his feet again, guided uselessly in a circuit around the bed until he planted full body back into it.

_I hope my legs don’t break, walking round the room..._

In the hotel lobby, Pickles just blinked it off, frowning at Evelyn, and grumbled at her with his chin on his fist, “I fucking hate Sting.”

But it had been worth it.  Enough to leave it behind.


End file.
